He Had No Name
by ADiamondoraButterfly
Summary: I never believed Erik when he said he “took the name of Erik at random”. We all know it had something to do with Christine. One-shot.


**Same universe as "The Angel Descends". I'm probably going to do a few more of these because there are little bits of my headcanon that I really want to share but that don't fit anywhere in the tAD narrative.**

It had been a wretched beginning.

His mother had been planning to call him Gaston after his father.

But his father had said that thing was no son of his and even if it was, he wouldn't give his name to it.

Looking back, the Ghost was glad. Gaston, to him, sounded like a fat old man with unkempt sideburns.

Still, his mother had been too distraught to think of another name. And so, the village priest, meaning well, had christened him Alphonse, after St. Alphonsus, the patron saint of the deformed.

 _Alphonse,_ for God's sake.

It hadn't lasted long. After running away from his parents' home and being picked up by the fair, he'd become the Devil's Child.

And now he was just 'the Opera Ghost'. A good, honest Ghost. That was quite sufficient for him. He was a simple man.

But lately, it had begun to wear on him. He would be thirty soon, and a man his age - especially one in his position, overseeing the most major opera house in Paris - ought to have a name, at least.

Madame Giry had always hated not having something to call him.

And he had to sign something on his music, for when future generations found it and his genius was finally recognized.

Something grand and Italian, he'd thought, like the old masters.

The sort of name that made one think of swirling cloaks and flashing lightning. Scipio or Damiano or Luciano.

But all of them felt false.

What was to be done?

* * *

The answer was hurled at him one afternoon as he was making his twice-daily patrol of the opera house.

At first, it seemed all was well. He was pleased to see that Joseph Buquet was at his post, minding his own business - perhaps the letters were working - and the managers were in their office, diligently going over the books. They'd been very obliging with regard to the matter of his salary.

Then, however, he came across something he had not been expecting to see.

In a room near the ballet rehearsal room, there was a clump of young women giggling and gossiping. Not an unusual sight. Two of them were the ringleaders, Meg and a girl called Marie Jammes. But what was new, she was there.

His goddess.

He threw himself behind a statue. Immediately there was a lump in his throat and his mouth went dry. He found his palms were sweaty, and wiped them uselessly on his worn trousers. It was absurd, of course. It wasn't as though he could make a mistake.

He couldn't make a fool of himself in front of her if she never saw him. The plan was foolproof. It would always go on like this. With such thoughts he tried to calm his wildly pounding heart, but it was useless.

"Did you hear? Cecile Sorelli has a new lover," came Meg Giry's voice. It was loud and brash, and the Ghost found himself wondering, as he often had, how she could be related to Madame Giry. "Pierre de Valtesse."

"Pierre - what a dreadful name!" Christine laughed, a beautiful, musical sound that caught the Ghost's breath in his throat.

Meg and Marie looked at her in surprise.

"No!" Meg exclaimed.

"It is a good- a strong- a manly name," the two Parisiennes chorused. "A true French name!"

"It makes me think of that horrible clown," Christine said. "The one that it looks like it came crawling out of a drunkard's nightmare."

The Ghost found he had to stifle a laugh. She was delightful. So clever.

And sensible, too. He had always hated that damned clown.

"That is Pierrot! It is different!" Marie laughed.

"I _know_ ," Christine said, "but that is what it makes me think of. Or a decaying old aristocrat in a powdered wig and pumps."

Marie sputtered with laughter.

"Well, let us inquire into this - what sort of name do you like, Christine?" Meg said.

The Ghost pricked up his ears.

There was a moment of silence as Christine thought.

"I don't know... Theo, I suppose... Gabriel... Erik," she said at last. "I have always fancied the name Erik. With a k, not a c. And certainly not a q-u-e, the way you French spell it."

 _Erik,_ the Ghost thought, savoring the name, turning it over in his mind.

"Erik?" Marie laughed.

"It sound like a sargaent barking orders at a regiment," Meg said.

"It sounds like someone clearing their throat," Marie laughed.

"Eeeee-reek," Meg said, squawking out the sound. "These German names!"

"It is Swedish!"

"Eee- _reeek_!" Meg repeated, guffawing with laughter as only an eighteen-year-old can do.

"Well, of course it sounds ridiculous said in your accent!" Christine protested. "Erik is a handsome name. It is mysterious and manly."

The Ghost stood up straighter.

"It sounds like an evil warlord sitting in his dark tower plotting the demise of his enemies."

Christine grinned. "Yes, it does," she said with relish.

"Erik the ... Terrible."

Erik the Terrible! The Ghost rubbed his hands together with glee.

* * *

When he had returned to his lair, he settled himself into his favorite armchair to think (happily, his belongings had all gone undisturbed during his time in Persia). He had an important matter to ponder.

Erik.

It did not seem to fit quite right. Compared to the sort of name he had always preferred, it had seemed too short, too sharp.

But something about it drew him - and not just because Christine had preferred it, though that of course was its principal attraction.

At last, he turned to his private library.

After a few minutes perusing the aisles, he found what he was looking for, amid the section devoted to Sweden.

He had amassed thousands of books about the place.

It had become a kind of obsession of his. He would spend hours letting his eyes wander over maps, imagining the journeys he would never take.

In his head, he had a little house in Stockholm, and lived across the street from Christine. Was it wrong, to have another life in one's mind? Surely not, when in this one he had to content himself with a cellar.

And yet, in all his years of trying to craft an identity for himself, it had never occured to him to look at names from there. Curious.

He opened the book he'd taken from the shelf and turned to a section he dimly recalled listed names.

Erik.

 _A name of rulers of kings of Sweden, Denmark, and Norway. F_ _rom the ancient Scandinavian 'Eiríkr'._

 _Eirik (Norwegian), Jerrik (Danish), Eerik (Finnish), Eryk (Polish), Erikas (Lithuanian)._

None of this was very informative. His eyes skipped a few lines.

Meaning. ' _Rules alone_.'

The Ghost felt as though he had been struck by lightning.

That was his name. Indeed, he felt somehow that it always had been; he just hadn't known it.

He leapt up, seized hold of an inkpen, and began signing it, in a frenzy, on every sheet of paper he came across. It looked splendid scrawled in blood-red ink.

"Yes," he shouted, laughing triumphantly, spinning wildly in circles. "I am no ghost. I am no angel. I am a man. I am Erik!"

 _Thank you, my beautiful Christine._

* * *

 ** _Note: I am changing Erik's birth name to 'Alphonse' in TAD. I know it's a hideous name, which is how I wanted it - it just underscores how he had sucky parents._**


End file.
